Damn Greycourt. Damn Quintus. Damn Lucretia. Damn every meddling Greycourt, every aristocrat intent on maintaining the sanctity of the aristocracy, every man, woman, and child who stood between him and Messalina.
He’d had her—her beauty, her wealth and position, her willing help with his ambitions.
Her tenderness.
He’d had her and he was suddenly afraid, not only that he’d never have her again, but that he might not survive without her.
The carriage shuddered to a stop and he glanced up, surprised to find that they were already at Whispers House.
Messalina moved to rise, and he had to scramble to get to the door before her. In the end he offered his hand to Lucretia first.
She slapped it away and leaped from the carriage like an Amazon bent on battle, scowling at him all the while with reddened, puffy eyes.
It was hard not to admire her.
But it was the woman behind her who had all his attention. Messalina tried to avoid his hand, but he was done with her sulking.
He grasped her wrist firmly. She yanked once in retaliation and then submitted to his help, descending from the carriage quietly.
Almost listlessly.
He jerked his hand away again as if her very passivity had burned him. Messalina never submitted to anyone, let alone him, and he didn’t like it.
His fear made him bend and murmur in her ear roughly, “I will talk to you and you will listen.” He couldn’t show weakness.
The scent of bergamot seemed to hang heavy in the air.
She turned her head and looked at him for the first time since that damned, bloody, godforsaken garden.
Her gray eyes were blank. All emotion hidden.
He wanted to hit something.
“Very well.” She glanced at Lucretia, her expression softening. “Good night, darling.”
Lucretia looked mutinous. “But—”
Messalina placed her hand on her sister’s arm. “I can handle this alone. I have to handle this alone. Try not to worry.”
The way she spoke, he might not have been there at all. He had the wild urge to throw Messalina over his shoulder. Make her pay attention to him.
Lucretia bit her lip, and tears welled in her eyes again. “Are you sure?”
Messalina lifted her chin, proud and tortured. “Yes.”
It made him angry that she should look like that—as if he’d torn something important inside her.
As if he’d hurt her irreparably.
He waited until Lucretia gave him one last threatening look and stalked into the house before pulling Messalina inside. He dared not let go of her wrist, because a part of him wondered if she’d flee. He would talk to her, use all his persuasive abilities.
He could set this right.
But there was no sense of reassurance or relief as he dragged her into the echoing library and shut the door behind them.
She freed herself from him then, pacing across the room to gaze stoically at the empty shelves. “Say what you wish to say to me and be done. I want my bed.”
He inhaled and said carefully, “I’m sorry. I did not mean to hurt you.”
“No?” She still addressed the bookshelves, as if even looking at him was too painful. “I can’t believe you imagined any other outcome to seducing me merely so my brothers couldn’t start a suit for annulment.”
“I…” His voice died away, and, unbelievably, he couldn’t think of what to say next. His pulse was pounding in a way that never happened during a knife fight. He’d faced death and not been the least bit perturbed.
But now…
He was afraid to his core.
“Well?” she asked.
She sounded bored.
That brought his anger to the fore and he fell back on it almost gratefully. “What difference does it make when I bed you?” He stalked to her, coming to stand so close she couldn’t help but look him in the face. “We both made a bargain—that this would be a marriage in truth. That hasn’t changed just because the timing of the bedding did.”
“Doesn’t it?” she asked softly. “Don’t play the innocent to me, Gideon. When you took me to bed I thought that the connection between us had grown. That we might become…”
She broke off, shaking her head.
“What?” He desperately wanted her to finish that sentence. If she did—if she admitted her affection for him—then all would be right, surely.
Her chin jerked up, and he’d never seen her gray eyes so pained—or so angry. “Love. I thought we might be falling in love. That you might have found some way to care for me.”
He stared, relieved. “You admit you feel something for me?”
“Yes, I had feelings for you,” she said, turning away. “Unlike you. I doubt you feel anything besides greed for money and privilege.”
He was desperate. He could feel her slipping through his fingers. “You know where I came from. You know what I wanted. Why do you act as if my desires are suddenly a surprise?”
“I shouldn’t, should I?” she murmured, as if talking only to herself. “You made plain enough that you had no heart. No soul. I was a fool to ever doubt that, even for a minute.”
Her lips were trembling, but she met his gaze with determination. “I’ve fulfilled my half of our marital bargain—more than once. I want my dowry portion tomorrow.”
If he gave her the money, she’d leave him.
She’d leave him.
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
Her lip curled. “You can’t or won’t give me my money?”
He gritted his teeth. “Won’t.”
“Fine, then.” She turned away. “When you give me my money—and you will give me my own money—then Lucretia and I will quit this house. Enjoy your bounty, Gideon, but do not try and trick me again. Leave me in peace.”
He felt as if he’d been stabbed in the gut as she marched to the door. This was a nightmare.
He was losing her.
“Wait.” He strode after her, meaning to grasp her arm.
But in a swift movement she wrenched away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Messalina,” he said, his chest swelling. Breaking.
Shattering.
“No.” Her voice was stern. “You may own this house, my money, and my name, but you do not own me.”
And she left him.
* * *
She felt as if her limbs were lead. Messalina carried herself very carefully as she made her way to the staircase. It wouldn’t do to show how mortally she was hurt.
How Gideon had so nearly broken her.
Just a few more steps, just a little bit more, and then she could rest, but in the meantime she held her head high.
She was a Greycourt, and she did not bow before disaster or humiliation.
Bartlett was in the hallway outside the room she’d shared with Gideon. “Ma’am? Are you well?”
“Yes.” Messalina nodded jerkily. “You may retire for the night.”
“But—”
Messalina ignored the lady’s maid’s bewildered protest. She continued down the hallway. She wished to never see the inside of Gideon’s bedroom again.
She had her hand raised to knock on Lucretia’s door when it was flung open. Her younger sister dragged her into the room and wrapped her arms around Messalina.
“I’m so sorry,” Lucretia gulped. Her voice was rasping as if she’d started crying again. “I had no right to discuss your marriage with Julian. He was speaking so ill of Gideon and I blurted that you and he had consummated your marriage now, so you must be more at peace with him. Julian leaped on my words, demanding to know what I meant and…”
Lucretia pulled back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand like a little girl. “I’m sorry, Messalina. I should’ve never spoken at all. Please forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” Messalina shook her head wearily as they sat side by side on Lucretia’s bed. “Really, it’s best that I know. I was a fool living a pan
tomime.”
“But you were so happy,” Lucretia whispered, crystalline tears caught in her eyes.
“Yes, but it was a false happiness, wasn’t it?” Messalina tried to smile and found she could not. “He doesn’t care for me. Not in the way I cared for him. Perhaps not at all. He was pretending all along, I think. Sooner or later he would’ve revealed the truth: our marriage was a sham.”
The tears so long kept in check suddenly overwhelmed her defenses. Her eyes blurred as she caught her breath on a sob.
She felt Lucretia’s arms wrap around her again in a tight hug.
“I wish I could call Gideon out,” Lucretia exclaimed fiercely. “I’d drive a sword right through his shriveled, black heart!”
Messalina snorted. “What a bloodthirsty thing you are. I do believe you’d do it if you could.”
“Of course I would,” Lucretia replied indignantly.
“Calm yourself, Mistress Tigress. I’d be quite alone were you to be imprisoned for illegal dueling.”
“Oh, very well,” Lucretia said with mock disappointment.
Her sister was trying to cheer her, she knew, but Messalina couldn’t produce a smile, let alone stop her steadily falling tears.
Lucretia’s voice was soft and gentle when she next spoke. “Let me help you with your bodice, Lina.” For some reason the childhood nickname, one Lucretia had invented when she was still in leading strings, made Messalina sob aloud. Lucretia unpinned her, drawing off both stomacher and bodice. “There. Now stand and I’ll untie your skirts. Careful.”
Messalina wobbled to her feet. “I shouldn’t have dismissed Bartlett,” she said, gulping. “And you ought to have a lady’s maid of your own.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Lucretia replied, her voice unbearably gentle. Her clever fingers were working at Messalina’s waist. “I’ve always been quite happy sharing Bartlett.”
“If you say so,” Messalina murmured. She was so weary! She felt as if she were wading through mud, her skirts dragging her down, down into black depths where she’d inevitably stop struggling at some point.
“I do say so,” Lucretia replied briskly. Messalina’s skirts fell about her feet. “Step out now. See, I can even act the lady’s maid with you. We don’t need anyone else at all.”
“Except that neither you nor I know how to cook.”
“Tush! I’m quite fond of lemon curd pies. I’m sure we could live on those alone.”
A weak laugh burst from Messalina’s throat. “As long as I have you and you have me, we’ll always get along.”
But in her heart she knew. She wanted Gideon as well. A man to hold her at night. To smile at her tenderly. To argue with her over the dinner table. A man who would love her for herself.
But that would never be, would it? She’d been a fool to ever forget that Gideon had married her for her name and money. Nothing else.
And now? She sighed wearily as Lucretia pulled off her panniers. Now she had to make plans to flee the country, hoping that Gideon would not renege on their bargain and would give her the dowry money.
She didn’t know if she could trust him even in that.
Lucretia pulled a fresh chemise over Messalina’s head, the crisp folds settling around her body. She’d been dressed like a doll by her sister.
Messalina turned to Lucretia and took her hands. “Thank you.”
Lucretia kissed her cheek and pulled her to the bed. “It’s just like when we were girls, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is,” Messalina said, trying to force a cheerful note into her voice. She very much feared that she failed utterly.
She climbed into the big bed and pulled the coverlet to her chin. She stared up at the ceiling as Lucretia blew out the candle. There was a rustling and the bed shook once or twice and then Lucretia lay still.
“Good night,” Messalina said.
“G’night,” Lucretia whispered.
Lucretia started making that purring sound, almost like but not quite a snore, only minutes later.
But it took hours for Messalina to sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
That night the fox brought home a freshly caught hare. Bet cooked it over an open fire in the clearing and they dined on roasted hare, blackberries, and hazelnuts. Then the fox stood on his hind legs, yawned, and turned into a long, lean, red-haired man.…
—From Bet and the Fox
Nearly a week later, Gideon met his wife coming up the Whispers House staircase while he was descending it.
They both paused, he on the higher step.
“Good afternoon,” she murmured, her gaze averted from his.
Gideon wished he could reply as stonily. That he didn’t yearn for her acknowledgment. He should simply walk past her without a word.
Except he couldn’t. “How are you?”
Her glossy hair was neatly and elegantly dressed, her frock a becoming shade of forest green, but there were shadows beneath the eyes that wouldn’t meet his. If only she’d consent to talk with him. There must be words that would stop this freezing alienation. That would make her smile at him again.
He hadn’t found the words before, a small, mocking voice reminded him, but he shoved it aside. He wasn’t giving up. She was his wife, his lover, his woman—even if she denied it now.
“I am well,” she replied coldly.
He took a breath. “I’ll see you at supper.”
There was desperation in his voice, and he couldn’t hide it.
“Of course,” she said, then nodded as if he were an acquaintance on the street—an acquaintance she didn’t particularly like—and continued up the stairs.
Bloody, bloody hell.
Gideon ran the rest of the way down the stairs as if fleeing all his troubles. Perhaps at supper she would talk to him. If not, it would be his last chance of the day. She hadn’t returned to his bedroom since the night of the ball.
“Guv,” Keys greeted him warily as Gideon reached the entryway.
“What have you got?” Gideon asked as he strode to the door.
He’d set Keys to shadowing Julian Greycourt to find out as much as he could about the man’s movements and habits. Knowledge was, after all, power, and Gideon intended to be in a position of power the next time he met Greycourt.
Keys hurried to catch up, reporting breathlessly as they descended the front steps. “I caught wind of some information. Greycourt might be meeting a gentleman.”
“Where?” Gideon growled.
“Opal’s.”
Gideon’s eyebrows shot up as they strode down the street. Opal’s was a notorious coffeehouse frequented by the dregs of the aristocracy—ruined clergymen, shady bankers, and the odd thief. “Never thought Greycourt would patronize such a place.”
“Aye, well, that’s probably the point, isn’t it?” Keys replied with damnable cheeriness. “Wouldn’t nobody think to find ’im there. ’E can meet ’ooever ’e pleases without anyone the wiser.”
Gideon shot a sharp glance at the man. “And you’re sure of this?”
Keys tapped the side of his nose. “The brother talks when ’e’s in his cups.”
Gideon merely grunted in reply to this.
The day was stupidly lovely, the sun blazing in the sky. Around them London surged and whirled, delirious in the good weather. A gap-toothed pieman bawled his wares in a particularly grating voice. Chairmen jogged past, their burden a ruddy gentleman with an enormous bobbed wig. A gaggle of urchins played knucklebones in a doorway while a wagon driver cursed his enormous draft horses.
The entire scene was enough to make a man spew. Or possibly that was just Gideon’s reaction.
They walked in silence for some twenty minutes before turning into a narrow lane, the space above their heads filled with shop signs.
Keys darted Gideon a nervous glance. “It’s just past here.”
“I know,” Gideon snapped, then winced. “Sorry.”
Another corner, and then Opal’s was suddenly on their right. In contra
st to the other businesses crowded into the narrow lane, Opal’s bore no sign. In fact, the only clue to its presence was the rich aroma of coffee.
Gideon ducked as he entered the low doorway.
Inside, tall booths enclosed cramped little tables. The patrons of Opal’s, unlike those of almost every other coffeehouse, had no urge to be seen. Long, blackened beams crossed the ceiling, and the only light was from a row of small, smudged windows facing the lane. At one end of the room was an elderly woman presiding over her tankards, coffee beans, and fire like an ancient priestess of some particularly malignant god.
“There.” Gideon indicated with a jerk of his chin a booth set within the shadows of the far side of the room. “That’ll give us a view of the door so we won’t miss Greycourt.”
Keys nodded, and they claimed their table.
Immediately a small, grubby boy slid two steaming tankards of coffee onto the table and accepted a handful of pennies in return without saying a word.
Gideon took a sip of his coffee, nearly singeing his tongue, and felt a loosening in his chest. Coffee was one of the seven wonders of the world, and those who favored tea were daft.
Well…except for Messalina. She used to close her eyes in bliss at the first sip of her tea.
The thought made him scowl at his tankard.
“’Ave you considered pretty talk?” Keys interrupted his sulk.
“What?” Gideon barked.
Keys’s sky-colored eyes widened. “I just meant you seem, erm…down in the mouth, guv. And it’s no secret there’s been a bit of a dustup between you and the missus.”
Gideon felt his upper lip rise. “And I suppose my domestic life has set Reggie, you, Pea, and his boys all atwitter. Bunch of gossiping old women, you lot.”
Keys pursed his lips, screwing up his face as if judging the matter soberly. “That we are, fair enough. But, see, what ’appens to you, guv, it’s sort of our business, too. If’n you’re in a glum mood, why, that’s ’ow our day goes. And mind, if’n you’re thinking on the missus and what’s not ’appening in your bedroom instead of work, some might take advantage, like. It’s when the old tomcat is thinking on something else that all the other cats attack.”
Gideon’s lips twitched. “An authority on cats, are you, then?”
When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 23